Seal Team Six

by Howard E. Wasdin

  With only two of us, we had less firepower than a boat crew and exercised additional caution not to be seen. Our ears became sharply tuned to the slightest sounds. We crouched as we walked—slow and silent, avoiding high ground that might cause our silhouettes to stand out.

  Three miles later, we reached the base of a hill. The PLO-Iranian compound lay on the other side. I walked point with DJ behind me, and we climbed nearly 600 feet until we neared a slope. Keeping the slope below us and the ridge above, we low-crawled around toward the other side of the hill. A mile ahead on the ground, I saw the wall of a compound form a triangle with guard towers in each corner surrounding three buildings inside. I also saw an enemy soldier sitting about 60 yards away to the right of our hill with binoculars around his neck and an AK-47 assault rifle slung over the back of his right shoulder.

  I stopped and signaled DJ with a clenched fist: Freeze. DJ stopped.

  The sentry remained still.

  After pointing two fingers to my eyes, then in the direction of the enemy sentry, I crawled in reverse. DJ backed out, too. We stalked around the back of the hill until we found another slope. This time when we crossed over, we had a clear view of the target with no sentries nearby. Our eyes searched the immediate area around us, then farther out until the compound came into view. The only people visible were the guards in the towers.

  While I guarded the perimeter, DJ sent an encrypted transmission burst over his radio to tell the USS San Jacinto we were in position. A burst message must’ve come back, because DJ nodded his head, giving me the green light.

  I unpacked the lightweight laser designator (AN/PED-1 LLDR), which wasn’t very lightweight, and its tripod while DJ covered our perimeter. After marking our position with a beacon, I painted the middle building in the PLO-Iranian compound, marking it with coded pulses of invisible laser light. The light would sparkle off the target and into the sky for the incoming Tomahawk missile to find.

  The cruise missile seemed to fly parallel to the earth. A trail of white smoke followed its flaming tail. The Tomahawk gradually descended until it shot into the center building, and 1,000 pounds of explosives burst in a ball of flame followed by clouds of black smoke. The shock wave and debris ripped apart the two other buildings and walls, causing a secondary detonation in one building—probably housing explosives used in making IEDs. Two of the three guard towers were ripped off. Through my binoculars, I clearly saw a soldier blasted out of his tower and sailing through the air like a stuffed doll. Only remnants remained of the compound wall. I could see no movement coming from the compound. From our hill the sentry ran toward the compound, probably hoping to find survivors among his friends.

  We packed up and moved out, taking a different path to our vehicle. It’s easy to become complacent on the way home, so it’s important to be extra cautious. After removing the camouflage netting, we hopped in and drove away. Again we drove back a different route than we came in.

  During the drive back, I noticed what appeared to be an enemy bunker, halfway exposed out of the ground. As I drove around to avoid it, the Humvee bogged down in the sand. When I tried to drive out, the Humvee wheels dug deeper, making the situation worse.

  Meanwhile, Iraqi soldiers exited the bunker.

  DJ and I aimed our CAR-15s at them.

  Fourteen of them walked toward us with their hands in the air. I saw no threat in their faces. They were dirty and stank. Their skin stretched tight over their bones; there was no telling how long they’d been without food. They put their hands to their mouths, the international gesture for food. During the war, some Iraqi soldiers had actually surrendered to camera crews, they were so willing to surrender and unwilling to fight.

  On the ground, rags stuck from the ends of their rifles to keep the sand out. We stepped out of our vehicle and told them to dig a hole with their hands. Next we ordered them to toss in their weapons. As they did, they seemed more frightened, as if they expected us to execute them. We motioned for them to cover the hole. Their fear subsiding, they complied. Some of them probably had wives. Kids. Most of them were around my age. Their lives were totally in my hands. They looked at me like I was Zeus coming down from Mount Olympus.

  Feeling sorry for them, I took out two MREs that I had broken down as emergency rations for escape and evasion. For fourteen guys, that wasn’t a lot of food, but they split the two meals up among themselves. One guy even ate the Chiclets. Well, you know, that’s really candy-coated chewing gum, but go ahead. Knock yourself out. We gave them most of our water. They put their hands together and bowed with gratitude, thanking us. Wisely, they didn’t try to touch us or get in our personal space.

  The faint glow of the sun began to appear on the horizon. Time to move. We made them put their hands on their heads. I marked the position of our Humvee on the GPS and walked the point while DJ followed at rear security. If a pilot had flown over and seen us, it would’ve looked bizarre with only two Americans patrolling fourteen captured enemy through the middle of the desert. We looked like the gods of war. Two Navy SEALs capture fourteen Iraqi soldiers.

  When we reached the base, Tom’s response was, “Why in the hell are you giving us these guys?”

  “Well, what did you want us to do with them?”

  “Keep them.”

  “We can’t keep them.”

  Soon our helicopter arrived, and we left our prisoners there, still bowing with their hands together and thanking us. The helo lifted off and took us back to the John F. Kennedy.

  In BUD/S and up until that point, I had been in the mindset that everyone I went up against was a bad guy. We were morally superior to them. I used language to make killing more respectable: “waste,” “eliminate,” “remove,” “dispatch,” “dispose”… In the military, bombings are “clean surgical strikes” and civilian deaths are “collateral damage.” Following orders takes the responsibility of killing off my shoulders and places it on a higher authority. When I bombed the compound, I further diffused personal responsibility by sharing the task: I painted the target, DJ radioed the ship, and someone else pressed the button that launched the missile. It’s not uncommon for combat soldiers to dehumanize the enemy—Iraqis become “ragheads” and “camel jockeys.” In the culture of war, the line between victim and aggressor can become blurred. All these things helped me do my job, but they also threatened to blind me to the humanity in my enemy.

  Of course, SEALs train to match the appropriate level of violence required by the situation, turning it up and down like the dimmer on a light switch. You don’t always want the chandeliers on bright. Sometimes you do. That switch is inside me still. I don’t want to, but I can turn it on if needed. However, the training didn’t prepare me for seeing the humanity in those fourteen men. It’s something you have to be in real combat to see. Not simulated combat. Maybe I could’ve put a bullet in every one of their skulls and bragged about how many confirmed kills I got. Some people have this concept of SEALs just being mindless, wind-me-up killing machines. “Oh, you’re an assassin.” I don’t like that. I don’t adhere to it. Most SEALs know that if you can do an op without any loss of life, it’s a great op.

  Seeing those fourteen men, I realized they were not bad guys. They were just poor sonsofbitches who were half starved to death, underequipped, outgunned, having no clue, and following some madman who’d decided he wanted to invade another country. If they didn’t follow the madman, the Republican Guard would execute them. I suspect they lost the will to fight. Maybe they never had the will to fight in the first place.

  They were human beings just like me. I discovered my humanity and the humanity in others. It was a turning point for me—it was when I matured. My standards of right and wrong in combat became clearer, defined by what I did and didn’t do. I did give the fourteen Iraqi soldiers food and take them to a safer place. I didn’t kill them. Whether you’re winning or losing, war is hell.

  Back on board the Kennedy, my eyes had opened wide. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, sit
ting on a chair and cleaning my rifle, I thought about how I had seen my enemy up close and knew I could match him and overcome him on a violence-of-action scale. Moreover, I realized it’s important to understand that our enemies are human.

  * * *

  Desert Storm only lasted forty-three days. We were furious that we didn’t go to Baghdad and finish it. The Kennedy stopped in Egypt, where we unloaded all our gear and checked into a five-star resort in Hurghada. Not being tourist season, and with the recent war, we were the only guests. During dinner, our platoon chief came in and slapped me on the back. “Congratulations, Wasdin, you made First Class.” I’d been promoted from E-5 to E-6. Life was pretty good for Howard. We waited two weeks for a flight back to Machrihanish, Scotland, to finish our six-month deployment.

  * * *

  I didn’t have flashbacks, nightmares, trouble sleeping, impaired concentration, depression, or self-devaluation about having killed for the first time—seeing the soldier blasted out of the PLO guard tower and landing lifeless on the ground. Those kinds of feelings seem less common among special ops guys. Maybe most of the people susceptible to that stress were already weeded out during BUD/S, and maybe the high levels of stress in our training prepare us for the high levels of stress in war. I began to control my thoughts, emotions, and pain at an early age—it was a matter of survival—which helped me cope with challenges in the Teams. I had endured the trauma of my dad’s harshness, Hell Week, and other experiences, and I endured war.

  I did have a moral concern about having killed for the first time, though. I was worried whether I’d done the right thing. On TV and video games, it may seem like killing is no big deal. However, I had made the decision to end someone’s life. The people I killed will never see their families again. Will never eat or use the restroom again. Never breathe again. I took everything that they had or ever will have. To me, that was a big deal. Something I didn’t take lightly. Even now, I still don’t take it lightly. During a visit home, I talked to Brother Ron. “I killed in combat for the first time. Did I do the right thing?”

  “You lawfully served your country.”

  “How is this going to affect me as far as eternity goes?”

  “It won’t have a negative affect on your eternity.”

  His words comforted me. My youngest sister, Sue Anne, who is a therapist, is convinced that I’ve got to have something wrong with me. There’s no way I’m functioning as normally as I am without repressing something. She just doesn’t get the fact that I really am OK with my decisions and mental peace.

  * * *

  There are few secrets among SEALs. We’re around each other constantly and know each other inside and out. I would know a guy’s daughter’s hair color, his wife’s shoe size, and everything that was going on. I knew more details about guys than I wanted to know. I also knew who wanted to try out for SEAL Team Six.

  Smudge, DJ, four other SEALs from Foxtrot Platoon, and I handed in our applications for joining SEAL Team Six. Smudge, DJ, and I passed the application stage, but the others didn’t. One guy was extremely pissed because he’d been a SEAL longer than I had. Our applications were accepted, and when Team Six’s master chief visited our command, he interviewed us. The odds were that only one of us would pass the interviews and be accepted to the next stage, but all three of us passed—which meant some other Team would have a higher rate of failure.

  We were given a time period to show up for our interview, which was only done once a year. In May, I underwent the main screening in Dam Neck, Virginia, even though Six usually required applicants to have been SEALs for five years. SEALs were lined up for interviews like kids at Disneyland anxiously waiting for a ride on Space Mountain. Guys like us had flown in from Scotland. Others flew in from California, Puerto Rico, the Philippines, and other places. For some, this wasn’t the first time they’d interviewed.

  Inside the interview room, my interviewers were mostly older enlisted SEALs—actual Team Six operators. They conducted themselves in a professional manner. The interviewers asked me a lot about my perception of things. About the combat I’d been in. “What are your shortcomings? Where do you need work?” It’s hard for a young SEAL to come clean with those answers. If you can’t recognize these and don’t have the will to work on them, how can you get to that next level?

  One tried to rattle me a bit. “Do you drink a lot?”

  “No.”

  “But you go out drinking with the guys.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re full of it.”

  “No.”

  “Do you drink a lot?”

  “I don’t know how to answer that again. Other than to say I don’t drink for effect.” I didn’t drink for the purpose of getting a buzz or getting drunk. “If my buddies go into town and they’re drinking, ninety-nine percent of the time I’m going to be there drinking with them. If we’ve got something to do, we don’t drink. So I don’t know how to answer that again. I don’t drink for effect. I drink for camaraderie.”

  He smiled wryly. “OK.”

  I left the room wondering how I’d done. The screening and interview process was an incredible experience. Later, a senior chief came out and told me, “That was the best interview I’ve ever seen.”

  “But I’ve only been in the Teams two and a half years.”

  “You’ve got enough real-world experience. I’m sure that’ll play into it.”

  If I hadn’t been a player in Desert Storm, I probably would’ve had to wait another two and a half years.

  Two weeks later, Skipper Norm Carley called Smudge, DJ, and me into his office. He gave us our date to start Green Team, the selection and training to become a SEAL Team Six operator. “Congratulations. I hate to see you men go, but you’re going to have a blast at SEAL Team Six.”

  PART TWO

  It’s a whole lot better to go up

  the river with seven studs

  than a hundred s***heads.

  —Colonel Charlie A. Beckwith,

  ARMY DELTA FORCE FOUNDER

  8.

  SEAL Team Six

  Green Team was a selection course—some of us would fail. Most of us were in our thirties. I was exactly thirty. The instructors timed our runs and swims. We practiced land warfare, parachuting, and diving—all taken to a whole new level. For example, we probably did around a hundred and fifty parachute jumps within four weeks: free-falling, HAHO, canopy stacking, etc. Our curriculum included free-climbing, unarmed combat, defensive and offensive driving, and Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape (SERE). Although we spent a little time on skills such as how to break into a car and how to start it with a screwdriver, we spent more time on how to maneuver the vehicle and shoot from it. The instructors evaluated us and ranked everything we did, including an overall score and ranking.

  The easiest part for me was the O-course, and the hardest part was John Shaw’s shooting range practicing close-quarters combat. More than learning how to pick a lock open, we learned how to blow the door off its hinges. We shot thousands of rounds every day. I was told that in one year, SEAL Team Six alone spent more money just on 9 mm ammunition than the entire Marine Corps spent on all its ammunition.

  I learned CQC at a whole new level. Even though I was already a SEAL, I hadn’t done it like SEAL Team Six does it. During one drill, we had to enter a room, engage the targets, shuffle-shoot, sprint, and shoot a stop target. The instructors constantly reconfigured the rooms: big, small, square, rectangle, enemy, friendly. They constantly reconfigured the furniture inside the rooms, too. We were constantly under scrutiny; the instructors showed us recordings of our performance on video.

  Bobby Z., a tall blond-haired kid, and I were always within a couple of seconds of each other. Sometimes we were so close that I felt the blast of his muzzle blow my hair—this was with live ammo. A large gap grew between us and everyone else. After reviewing the video, we saw that Bobby and I didn’t slow down while we shuffle-shot side to side. Most people slow down a lot to
engage their targets, but we didn’t. Bobby kicked my butt on the runs and swims.

  While in Green Team, Bobby and I went back and forth in the number one position. I ended up being ranked at number two. Part of the reason for the ranking was that we actually went through a draft. While we were out at John Shaw’s shooting school, scouts from Red, Blue, and Gold Team came out to watch us train—getting feedback from the rankings, cadre, and our live performance. They weren’t impressed to find out about the guy who came back drunk from a strip club, crashed his car into a bridge, and flew through his windshield.

  SEALs constantly work in danger, but Team Six pushed those danger levels higher. In the first years of Six’s formation, during CQC training, a Team member stumbled and accidentally squeezed the trigger, shooting Roger Cheuy in the back. Cheuy later died in the hospital due to a staph infection. “Staph” is short for “staphylococcal,” and that strain of bacteria produces toxins similar to those in food poisoning. The Team member was not only kicked out of Six but kicked out of the SEALs. In another incident, a freak CQC accident, a bullet went through one of the partitions in the kill house and entered between the joints in Rich Horn’s bullet-resistant vest, killing him. In a parachuting mishap, Gary Hershey died, too.

  Six months after my Green Team started, four or five men had failed out of thirty. Although we had some injuries, none of them were fatal. Red, Blue, and Gold made their first picks of the draft. Red Team picked me up in the first round. Just like the NFL draft. Similar to the Washington Redskins, Red Team’s logo was the American Indian—some activists may find it offensive, but we embraced the bravery and fighting skills of the Indians.

  Just because I got drafted in the first round didn’t mean I got treated better in the Team. I became an assault member just like everybody else. My boat crew was one of four. I was still the F-ing New Guy (FNG). Never mind I’d been in combat and some of them hadn’t. I would have to earn their respect.